


A Fever You Can't Sweat Out

by missingelderly



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Smut, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missingelderly/pseuds/missingelderly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy and Murphy do not want to be roommates. And they certainly don't want to be any more than that either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After years of quietly writing fic for my eyes only, here's my first multi-chapter work! A big thanks to everyone who has left a comment, kudos, or bookmark on my other works, you gave me the much needed confidence to post this.
> 
> Tags will be updated as things occur. The explicit warning applies to future chapters, of course. 
> 
> Thanks to Abby for being the best beta ever and for dragging me to 100 hell in the first place. I know I always tell you how great you are, but it never feels like I say it enough.

“Can you two get a room?”

Miller, still lip-locked with Monty, threw a middle finger in Murphy’s direction.

It was the end of another successful movie night, once again cut short by Monty’s impending morning classes. When asked how he was able to function at “such an ungodly hour” by Murphy, Monty just shrugged and replied “I’m a morning person, I can’t help it.” 

Miller and Murphy had been roommates for almost two years, and the recent addition of Monty to their ritual which celebrated “Movies That Fucking Rock” certainly livened things up a bit. Now there was a mediator when Miller and Murphy got into heated discussions about whether or not the blood in April Fool's Day was gratuitous or realistic. Murphy rolled his eyes at the couple and lobbed his empty beer bottle at the trash can.

Monty broke the kiss to flash an apologetic smile at Murphy. “Sorry. We’ll try to keep it behind closed doors after the end of the month.”

Murphy frowned. “What’s at the end of the month?”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Miller said too loudly, ushering a confused Monty out the front door. He returned ten minutes later, rubbing the back of his head.

“What was that all about?”

Miller sighed. “Look, before anything else, you’re my best friend, okay? And I would never want to hurt you, unintentionally or otherwise.”

“Yeah, of course…”

The force with which Miller had to use to spit out his next words was evident on his face. “I’m moving in with Monty. Or, well, it would be more accurate to say that _he’s_ moving _in_.” Murphy opened his mouth to speak but Miller kept going, his words becoming jumbled, his eyes on the ground. “It’s just that his apartment is really small and this place is so close to campus, and when I brought it up with him I wasn’t thinking, and—”

“Are you asking me to move out?” Murphy interrupted. 

Miller finally took a breath and looked at Murphy. “I am not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. I’m only saying that at the end of the month, our total population will be up to three." 

“Did it not occur to you to ask me before making a decision like this?” Murphy cocked his head to the side. “I’m just curious, since I’m also paying rent here.” 

“I know, I should have asked, but…” He sighed. “I love him. More than any other guy I’ve been with. And I love you too, and I know you two have been trying really hard to get along these past few months, but…but I’m ready to take that extra step, you know?” 

“And that extra step involves kicking me out?” 

“I never said that.” 

“You didn’t have to.” 

“Are you seriously going to start shit about this?” 

“I’m not starting anything. In fact, I’m finishing it.” He strode toward the front door. 

“Jesus Christ, come on, Murphy—” 

His only reply was the sound of the door banging against the wall after Murphy flung it open. He left the door agape so Miller could watch his silhouette retreat down the road. 

\---

“So what’s Murphy going to do?” Monty asked.

They had grabbed a quick lunch between classes at a sidewalk café. The light that filtered down through the trees was golden, and dry leaves skittered across the cobblestone with every breeze that blew. 

Miller shrugged as he threw back the last of his coffee. “He’s probably going to move out without telling me, knowing him. If he hasn’t already.”

“I just feel awful about the whole thing…especially since you lied to me about it.”

“Don’t.” Miller laid his hand on top of Monty’s. “Murphy’s like a cockroach. He can survive anything. And I didn’t mean to lie about him being okay with you moving in. It just slipped my mind. You have that effect on me.”

Monty smiled and intertwined their fingers. “That’s no excuse for being an asshole.” The faux smile dropped.

“You’re busting my balls here, dude.”

“Have you guys even talked since last night?”

“Nope. I’ve called him like eight times, but Harper said he was at work, so…” Miller shrugged.

“Do you know where he might go?”

“No. And that’s his business. He doesn’t want to tell me anything, fine, that’s his deal. The dude has boundaries. But as his friend, I’ll make sure he’s safe, and not sleeping in the park again.” Miller kissed Monty’s hand with a flourish. “All you need to be thinking about is that starting this time next week, we get to wake up next to each other every single morning.”

“What makes you think I’m not thinking about it?”

They shared a kiss across the table, but Monty pulled away with a sigh. “I need to pay him back.”

Miller rolled his eyes. “You are entirely too nice.”

“I’m kicking the guy out and turning his room into a greenhouse for crying out loud. It’s the least I can do.”

Miller laughed. “Woah, you didn’t mention that last part…”

“I have to pay the rent somehow.” Monty winked. “But I aim to have a more scrupulous job by the end of the year.”

Miller kissed him again, just because.

\---

Murphy came back, of course. His neck was stiff from sleeping in the coffee shop where he worked (thank God Harper had given him keys to the place) and he was exhausted from being on his feet all day. It seemed like he made a cup of coffee for himself for each one a customer ordered, but it still wasn’t enough to pull him out of this slump. Or maybe it was just because the pain of Miller’s rejection, so sharp the night before, had dulled into a bruise.

Speaking of, there was no sign of him at the house. Just as well. With luck, all traces of Murphy would be erased by the time he got back.

He started by shoving things into his duffel bag helter-skelter, realized nothing would fit, then dumped everything out and started being more careful about his packing. He crouched in front of his bag, meticulously folding the few clothes he owned, trying to make them as small as possible. 

With his earbuds blaring in his ears, it was no wonder the sudden touch on his shoulder startled him so violently.

Monty was standing behind him. “Sorry. Bad time?”

Murphy could have sworn he locked the door behind him. “What, did he already give you keys to this place?”

“He said earlier that you would do something like this. He lent me his house key to see if you stopped by.”

Murphy yanked out his earbuds and wound them around his phone in a quick, practiced motion. “Doing his dirty work for him?”

“God, Murphy. He’s picking up someone’s shift at the diner. He figured you would already be gone by the time he got back. No need for the melodrama.”

So Miller knew him well enough to know Murphy would try to pull a stunt like this. He made a mental note to be less predictable in the future. Murphy rose. “Well, I’m here.” He held his arms out at his sides. “Are you going to stop me from leaving?”

Monty rolled his eyes. “You and I both know I can’t. But I did want to apologize. I had no idea you didn’t know. I thought he had talked to you already.”

Murphy scoffed. “So he lied to you and said I was okay with it?”

“I don’t think he meant to lie,” Monty said. “You know Miller’s not great with details.”

“Glad to hear my living situation is just a detail.”

“Listen to me,” he said forcefully. “I’m pissed at him for lying to me, and I’m sorry you got caught in it. But come on, you’re best friends. You can’t just run off without telling him anything. Cutting off the people who care about you is the worst thing you could do. Believe me, I would know.”

Murphy nodded, slowly. He wanted to say that if that was the case, why wasn’t Miller here himself? But he knew Miller cared. He had enough voicemails from the previous night to prove it. “Fine. Alright. Whatever.”

“Good.” Monty nodded. A conspiratorial expression creeped across his face. “Do you, uh…have a place in mind yet?”

“No.” Murphy had gone over his short list of acquaintances and found they all fell into one of two categories: unable to live with due to external circumstances and unable to live with because he would probably end up tearing their head off. His current plan involved staying at a cheap motel for an indefinite period of time. 

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Murphy arched an eyebrow at him.

“I happen to know a guy who needs a roommate.” He quickly added, “He works nights, so you’d hardly see him.”

“Now I’m interested,” Murphy said drily. 

“I thought you’d like that.” Monty smiled. “He’s a really great guy, and he said he would love to have you. Well, he didn’t say love. But he’s willing.”

“What’s his name?”

“Bellamy. Bellamy Blake.”

“Weird name.”

“I know. But he’s totally normal. And if you end up hating his guts, I fully accept responsibility.”

It wasn’t “if” Murphy ended up hating him so much as “when”. But the more he considered it, the more a new plan came into focus: stay with this Bellamy guy for a while and save up for a place of his own. The sooner he was out of this guy’s hair, the better.

“Or you could stay here,” Monty said, mistaking his silence for reluctance. “I can’t guarantee a PDA-Free zone, but we won’t be animals about it.”

“With Miller’s bedroom right there?” He pointed at the wall. “I can’t even imagine the racket.”

Monty smiled and coughed. “So you’ll do it?”

“Sure. Why the hell not?”

He looked like he wanted to hug Murphy, but he restrained himself. “Bellamy’s a great guy. You’ll really like him.”

Murphy smirked. “I doubt that, but I appreciate the sentiment.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the house description in this chapter is taken from a character study I did of Bell ages ago. I hope you get something out of it! And don't worry, the Bell/Murphy interactions will start ramping up soon. I just like showing the minor characters some love.
> 
> Speaking of love, to everyone who left a little kindness on the first chapter: you are amazing, and thank you so much.
> 
> Still speaking of love, to Abby: thanks for keeping my characterization in check and putting up with all my emails and notes and frantic texts. You're a superstar.

Bellamy did not want a roommate.

He had told Clarke that multiple times. He had told Octavia that for even more. He was perfectly happy having a house to himself, and living a solitary lifestyle like Socrates would have wanted. Or Aristotle. One of those guys.

But it was impossible to say no to Monty Green.

He had begged Bellamy over the phone to let Miller’s roommate move in with him. Monty had insisted several times that this Murphy character was totally normal, which to Bellamy only meant that this prospective roommate wouldn’t be skinning animals or trying to pry up the floorboards in the dead of night. A “normal” roommate still had the capacity to annoy him to all hell.

Yet against his better judgment, Bellamy agreed, because Monty sounded legitimately distressed over the fate of Murphy. So if anything, he thought, he had put Monty’s mind at ease and given one of his friends a roof to sleep under. That was all that mattered. 

Of course Clarke was ecstatic when Bellamy told her. She was visiting her girlfriend overseas, but Bellamy thought the occasion was worth the out of country call charges.

“Finally!” she said, her voice clouded with static. “It’s about time you stopped living like a mole person.”

“I resent being called a mole person.” Bellamy had the phone pressed against his ear as he emptied out the room that would be Murphy’s. “My house isn’t subterranean by any means.”

“It might as well be. There aren’t any windows.”

“There are…a couple windows…”

Clarke ignored him. “You should get some plants too. Liven up the place. Lexa has plants all over her apartment, it’s gorgeous.”

“I thought I had no windows, remember? No sunlight.”

“I’ll get you a cactus, then. I think it’s fitting.”

Regardless of what she thought, Bellamy liked his house. It used to be part of a duplex, but the other side of the building was permanently vacated, most likely because the building was barely up to code. Not once had the door on the left been unlocked in the years Bellamy had lived next to it.

He was just thankful the roof wasn’t leaking. A week had passed after Monty’s phone call, and moving day had coincided with a brutal thunderstorm. The lights flickered with every clap of thunder. Bellamy wouldn’t have been surprised if Nosferatu showed up on his doorstep. However, the trio of knocks at his door announced a different guest.

Murphy—they had not been introduced, but it could only be Murphy—barely gave Bellamy a glance as he studied the inside of the house with suspicion. “You must be Bellamy.”

His dark hair, further darkened by the rain, clung to his forehead and temples in wet strings. His blue eyes scrutinized Bellamy with such intensity that he almost had to look away. The storm raged not an inch away from his back.

“You must be Murphy.”

He flashed Bellamy a humorless smile. “Charmed.”

Bellamy felt like he was letting in a stray cat as he watched Murphy slink across the threshold. His wary posture was inhibited by the backpack and duffel bag slung over his shoulders. Bellamy tried to ignore the wet footprints he was leaving on the carpet. 

“Is that all you have?”

“I figure I’ll move the bigger stuff when the weather is less…biblical.”

Bellamy’s apartment was, unlike anyone else’s that he knew, neat. It might have had to do with the fact that he didn’t have a lot of things. He had a couch, a coffee table, a rug that Octavia had bought for him, a TV he hardly used. All of the kitchen utensils were nestled into their respective drawers and cabinets, save for a forgotten mug of coffee. Bellamy pulled back a white shuttered door to show Murphy the laundry cabinet, a washing machine and dryer concealed from the kitchen appliances.

The kitchen and living room made up the two halves of the main room, only separated by a counter and the seam in the floor where carpet changed to tile. A dingy back door led to a porch that was no more than a slab of concrete, lit by a harsh yellow lightbulb.

The hallway, the next stop on their meager tour, was the tiny inlet into the rest of the house: two bedrooms, big enough to fit a bed and a chest of drawers and not much else, a bathroom with a pitifully small bathtub, and a hall closet that was mainly dominated by blankets and towels and Bellamy’s winter coats. Thus was Bellamy’s apartment.

And, yes, there were not a lot of windows.

Compared to the rest of the house, Murphy’s room was positively dismal. It was the only other room in the house (besides the kitchen) that had a window, yet there was not a thing inside. Murphy dropped his bags unceremoniously and turned to smile at Bellamy. 

“You won’t even know I’m here.”

\---

The rain didn’t let up until the following day, so Murphy spent his first night at Bellamy’s house on the couch. He soon found out that Monty had been telling the truth about Bellamy’s odd hours. At nine o’clock that night (after an uneventful afternoon of Murphy napping on what was essentially a stranger’s couch, while Bellamy locked himself in his room), Bellamy announced he was leaving for work.

Murphy checked the time on his phone to verify he hadn’t slept until the next day. “You work at a strip club or something?”

“I’m a bouncer at _a_ club,” Bellamy said, already halfway out the front door. “Not the strip kind.”

“You’re really going out in this weather?”

“No rain nor sleet nor snow will stop drunk coeds from partying.”

“Even on a Thursday?”

“Especially on a Thursday.”

The words had barely escaped his mouth when he shut the door. It was Murphy’s first time alone in the new house. 

A perfect time for a more extensive tour.

The first thing he discovered, after batting open cabinet doors at random, was that there was not a drop of booze to be found. This was baffling to Murphy: had he just unwittingly taken up residence with a straight-edge do-gooder? He recoiled from the spotless fridge. In lieu of takeout boxes, fresh food inhabited the shelves. There was even a drawer full of fruit. Murphy snagged an apple and stuck his head out the back door. The backyard was muddy and unremarkable.

There was only one room he hadn’t seen. Just a quick look, Murphy told himself. Just quick enough for his curiosity (and boredom) to be sated. 

Bellamy’s room was slightly larger than Murphy’s, in that it had enough space for a desk and a plastic swivel chair. On the desk, there was another mug of cold coffee, a laptop, and a pair of glasses that looked as if they had been flung onto the desk in frustration. A small stack of books, all very academic looking, seemed to provide the source of his past anger.

His bed was made, which surprised Murphy. He thought making beds was a myth. Cradling the mattress was an antique bedframe of finely sculpted mahogany. It was probably the fanciest thing in the house. Murphy ran his fingers along the wood, worn soft by time. He sat on the edge of Bellamy’s bed and studied the bulletin board hanging above the desk.

Pinned to it were letters, postcards from “O”, and picture after picture of a beautiful girl with long brown hair: at the top of a mountain with her arms raised in triumph, cradling the head of a fearless doe, laughing, sunbathing on slabs of grey rock. There were pictures of a blonde girl too, but they weren’t as numerous. 

Other miscellanea: dried violets taped to index cards, doodles done in pencil, and a note written on the back of a soda label that Murphy found very amusing, which read “SORRY ABOUT THE DOOR IT WAS NOT MY FAULT I SWEAR I’LL FIX IT THANKS BRO -- JJ”.

The center of the board was exposed, his mementos hovering around the void like satellites around a black hole. Hanging off the corner of the board itself, were a few gaudy strings of plastic beads and a shark tooth necklace. They clattered against the wall when the front door slammed, and the bottom of Murphy’s stomach dropped out.

It was too late to pretend he had been doing anything different. Murphy muttered a curse and chomped on his apple. When Bellamy saw Murphy, his face grew stormier than the sky outside.

“Forgot my phone,” he deadpanned. “What the hell are you doing?”

Murphy shrugged. “Just looking around.”

Bellamy plucked his phone off of its charger. “Just snooping.”

“Hey, can you blame me?” Murphy flared. “I was curious. And I haven’t touched anything, for your information.”

Bellamy’s lips were pressed into a thin line, his arms crossed. Murphy noticed the small scar on his upper lip. “I work nights on the weekend. I have class during the day. My room is off limits. That’s all you need to know.”

Unsatisfied, Murphy pointed at one of the pictures of the brunette girl. “Is she your girlfriend?”

“She’s my sister.”

“What about the blonde?”

“Why are you so interested?”

“I want to know if I’m going to have to be absent on certain nights, if you get my drift.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about it.”

Murphy took one last bite and tossed the core into a waste bin near the desk. “You sure blondie’s not your girlfriend?”

“Believe me,” Bellamy said, clearly trying to bite back a laugh. “She’s not my type.”

\---

Miller and Murphy piled his furniture into the back of Monroe’s truck bright and early the next day. The only sign that a storm had occurred was the puddles in the road that Monroe swerved around.

“If getting my stuff a little wet means you won’t put my head through the roof,” Murphy said after a particularly violent turn. “By all means, go for it.”

Monroe, who could barely see over the steering wheel, reached behind her to pinch Murphy’s cheek. “Precious cargo. Sorry.”

“Keep your eyes on the damn road if it’s so precious,” Miller said, grabbing the wheel to avoid veering off into the other lane.

“Will the man of the house be there?” Monroe asked.

“No. Class. Getting a master’s in history, apparently. Useless fuckin’ degree, if you ask me.”

“As opposed to no degree?” Miller quipped.

Monroe whipped her head around, her braids flying in the air like Medusa’s snakes. “Not everyone is cut out for academia, elitist prick.”

“What she said,” Murphy intoned, lighting up a cigarette. Miller plucked it out of his fingers.

“If you think you’re going to just sit back while ‘Roe and I do the heavy lifting, you’ve got another thing coming.”

They never brought up Murphy’s outburst that led to the move in the first place, but it was better that way. As they unloaded the truck, they talked and joke as if nothing had happened. Maybe it was because Monroe was there to break the ice, but sometimes Miller and Murphy caught the other looking at them with an apology in his eyes.

Murphy didn’t have a lot, but what he did have was heavy. They frequently stopped for breaks, three pairs of tattooed, aching arms stretched out on the still damp front lawn. It was during one of these breaks the topic of work came up, as it always did, because Monroe couldn’t hold a job to save her life. 

“Is Antidote hiring?” she asked Murphy, nudging him with her foot.

“It’s all customer service,” he replied, waving a hand dismissively. “You couldn’t do it.”

“Shit, if you of all people could do it, I could too.”

“Yeah,” Miller said, with a sly grin aimed at Murphy. “You’d be a _real_ angel if you worked a shift with Harper.”

She bolted upright as they laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Miller put his hands on her shoulders. “It means you have the schoolgirliest schoolgirl crush on Harper, and everyone knows it.”

Monroe was silent for the rest of the move.

They were down to the last item in the truck, a worn dresser that smelled like the estate sale it had come from. Monroe gathered up the drawers and carried them inside without so much as a word to Miller or Murphy. Miller stood in the truck bed, one hand on the dresser, staring down at Murphy.

“Okay. I’m going to push this out and you catch it.”

“Well that’s obviously not going to happen, so what’s your next idea?”

Miller scratched the stubble on his chin. “We could devise a system of pulleys and levers—”

“How about you just gently lower it down, MacGyver?”

“No fun,” Miller tutted at him. They grabbed the dresser and the sharp sound of a car door shutting interrupted their movements.

Bellamy had parked in front of the house and was approaching the truck that was currently invading his parking space. “Need a hand?”

“We got it,” Murphy said. Miller began lowering the dresser and Murphy almost immediately crumpled under its weight. Bellamy swooped in and hefted the dresser with ease.

“I got it,” he said. Then, to Miller, “Mind helping me carry this in?”

Murphy’s face was burning and Miller smirked at him as he followed Bellamy inside. His bed was now assembled and his room certainly looked more habitable now. All that was left was the actual unpacking and reorganizing.

Their work done, Monroe and Miller prepared to depart. Monroe hopped into her truck and revved the engine impatiently while Miller lingered in the front yard with Murphy.

“Your roomie seems like an okay dude.”

Murphy barked out a short, sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, as long you don’t talk to him. Major stick up his ass.”

Miller smiled, but his eyes betrayed a different emotion.

“Come on, man,” Murphy muttered, but he pulled him into a hug anyway.

“We’re still getting together for Harper’s birthday,” Miller said after the embrace. “And I better see your ass before that, okay?”

“Sure, sure. I’ll be around.”

They smiled and said their goodbyes. With Miller’s departure, Murphy became an official resident of the Blake household. It was late afternoon and the dying sun painted the world gold. Monroe’s truck glimmered as it drove down the street. Murphy didn’t stay outside for long.

He lingered in the living room, lost in thought. It took him a while to notice Bellamy staring at his arms from the kitchen.

“Can I help you?”

“Sorry,” Bellamy said, looking away. “I was looking at your tattoos.”

His two half-sleeves were a patchwork of bad decisions: a saint pierced by seven swords, bats, the Black Flag logo, everything a wanna-be punk had on his wish list. “You got any?”

Bellamy’s eyes flicked up to his. “None that you’ll ever see.”

That earned a genuine smile out of Murphy. Maybe his new roomie didn’t have as big of a stick up his ass as previously thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Being out of town last week zapped my motivation. But while I was gone, something incredible happened! This fic broke 50 kudos! I honestly can't believe so many people are enjoying this thing. Thank you so much. It really means a lot, especially since we haven't even gotten to the good stuff yet!
> 
> Good news: I procrastinated on this chapter by writing chapter four, so there won't be as long of a wait this time around. I'm very excited about chapter four. I hope you are too.
> 
> Obligatory thanks to Abby, who notices the little things.

The room had undergone a massive transformation since Murphy moved in. The mattress still didn’t have a proper bed frame, but was lifted up on a metal platform so it no longer touched the ground. A small bookshelf stood under the window, sparsely populated with unnamed books with white streaks running down the spines. There was a small pile of vinyl records on the bottom of the shelf, although there was no record player to be found.

The bed was sheeted in simple, black cotton. A guitar case hid underneath the bed, dust on the gold locks. The top of the bureau had spent lighters, empty soda cans, and, oddly enough, a small silver box with dainty embellishments on the edges. Murphy had gotten hissy and defensive when Bellamy asked about it, so he let the subject drop. Sometimes he got the urge to investigate while Murphy was out, but knew he would never act on it. Not after the incident with Murphy in his room that first night.

He had a rickety bedside table that shook violently if you so much as breathed near it. The lamp that sat on top of it wasn’t faring much better. The only other things the table could hold without toppling over were a spiral notebook and a digital alarm clock.

He wasn’t as neat as Bellamy. Not by a long shot. Pens were scattered across the floor. His dresser drawers were always open and leaking clothes like blood and pus out of a horror movie monster. Dirty laundry was lumped into odorous piles. His hoodie hung on the doorknob. There were food wrappers too, but Bellamy was strict about not leaving food out: he’d gone this long without rats, and he wasn’t about to start now. 

Carelessly leaving junk on the floor was just one of many habits Murphy had that Bellamy couldn’t stand, although his smoking was by far the worst one. Bellamy detested the habit, which Monty had failed to mention Murphy had in the first place. Granted, he didn’t do it in the house, but cigarette butts still accumulated around the front and back porch. 

Bellamy despised everything about Murphy’s cigarette-smoking, booze-chugging, cup-noodle-slurping lifestyle, but he knew any lecture of his would fall on deaf ears. Only once had Bellamy attempted to explain the detriments of tobacco, and the argument it incited was so fierce that Bellamy had a headache the rest of the day. Talking to Murphy and pounding his head against a brick wall became synonymous. 

Something else of note: Murphy seemed to constantly have his headphones on. Bellamy had caught him on multiple occasions just sitting there, listening to whatever it was he was listening to, eyes unfocused, not moving a muscle. It was completely unnatural. One night he decided to broach the topic.

He opened Murphy’s door after not receiving a response to his knocks, and saw Murphy with his headphones on (of course), staring at the ceiling. He yanked one cord out of his ear. “What?”

“What are you listening to all the time?”

“Why do you care?”

“Just curious. I figured asking was, you know, better than breaking into your room.”

Murphy made a disgusted face, but didn’t respond to the comment. “Books. I listen to books.”

“Oh.” Bellamy didn’t know what he had been expecting. “Well…that’s fine.”

“So it wouldn’t be fine if I was listening to something else?”

“…listening to loud music ruins your hearing.”

“Please, give me another lecture about my health, since you’re clearly the expert when it comes to my body.”

“Sorry for interrupting you,” Bellamy clipped, slamming his door.

Disregarding the few conversations they had, the first month passed easily. They hardly saw each other due to their combined efforts to be out of the house as much as possible. Only the remains of their presence let them know the other had been home: dirty dishes, discarded jackets, a wet toothbrush... Bellamy was pleased to find Murphy’s half of the rent on the kitchen counter the day before it was due. Things were easy. Routines were forming.

Then Harper’s birthday happened.

\---

Murphy had told Bellamy where he was going (Harper’s place) and that he wouldn’t be back until late morning (because he planned on getting hammered), so Bellamy took advantage of his absence by studying in the living room instead of in his bedroom. Not that it helped his concentration at all. He checked the time on his phone (a little past two) and didn’t look back at his books until it was nearly three.

A sudden scrabbling sound at the front door made Bellamy jump, although it didn’t frighten him enough to make him go for the bat behind the fridge. He blanched when the door opened.  
Murphy slammed the door behind him and dropped his keys on the floor. The entire lower half of his face was bloodied. A slash on his lower lip stood out, a darker red than the blood around it. His nose bridge appeared intact, but it was obvious a nosebleed had only recently stopped. The beginning of a bruise was smudged on his right cheek. He tottered forward a few steps before slumping against the wall. 

Bellamy was at his side in an instant. “Jesus, what happened to you?”

“’M fine,” Murphy mumbled, trying to brush by him. Bellamy caught him by the shoulders.

“You’re obviously not.” The stench of alcohol on his breath was overpowering. Bellamy tried not to inhale as he gently shoved Murphy onto the couch. “Don’t move.” The last thing he needed was a dead roommate on his hands. 

Bellamy grabbed a wet rag from the kitchen. When he returned, he saw Murphy eyeing the books on the coffee table. He still stared at them even when Bellamy gently took his face with one hand.

He wiped off the blood with his other hand, red fingerprints blooming on the white cloth. Bellamy could feel Murphy’s pulse fluttering under his fingertips. He dabbed at his bloodied lip as gently as he could, but Murphy still winced. 

“Sorry,” Bellamy whispered. He cleared his throat. “Interested in classics?”

Murphy slid his eyes away from the books. “Not the kind you like.”

“No Plato? Ovid?”

“Little too old for my taste.”

Who would have known that all it took to have a pleasant conversation with Murphy was buckets of booze and extensive facial wounds? “Oh yeah?”

“Shakespeare’s about as old as I get.”

Bellamy couldn’t hide his laughter. “Really? You? _Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears_ …”

Murphy turned green. “Not the histories.”

“Ah. Those are my favorite. The only other line I can remember is _doubt thou the stars are fire_. I can’t remember the rest.”

“ _Doubt that the sun doth move_ ,” Murphy recited. “ _Doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt_ …I’m gonna puke.”

Bellamy yanked his hands back as Murphy dashed to the kitchen. He made it to the sink, which was better than nothing. He straightened his back and spit. He swayed, but he could still stand on his own. 

“Feel better?” Bellamy asked, slinging the bloodied rag over the faucet.

Murphy nodded. “Much.”

“So what really happened? To your face?”

“I dunno,” Murphy drawled. “What happened to yours?”

Bellamy rolled his eyes. “I need to know if you’re going to make coming home covered in blood a regular thing.”

“’S not your problem.”

One second they were actually having a pleasant conversation and the next… “I guess you don’t need help getting to bed then.”

“No. Unless you’d like to join me.”

Bellamy nudged him toward the hallway. “Talk to me when you’re less wasted.”

“So it’s a yes?”

“I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant—”

“I _know_ what you meant. Jeez, Freckles.” Murphy elbowed him as he headed to his room. “Just a joke.”

Bellamy forgot about studying and instead scrubbed the sink with such ferocity that his hands ached afterwards.

\---

The next morning, instead of ignoring Bellamy and going straight to work, hungover and all, Murphy lingered in the kitchen. Bellamy had barely entered, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, when Murphy spoke.

“It’s called The Secret History. The book I’m listening to right now. It’s about a classics class. In case you don’t get enough of that in real life.”

Plainly apprehensive, Bellamy nodded. “I’ll check it out…”

Murphy returned the nod and was out the door in record time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very very tempted to write the full story of Harper's birthday as a separate (harpoe) oneshot, but it probably won't be done until this monster is finished. It's not as gruesome as what you think. Trust me. Murphy's big mouth just gets him in trouble sometimes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for faceslapping (just once) and rough sex in general. It's very brief. All scenarios presented are consensual.

A couple months had passed since Murphy had recommended the book to Bellamy. At the time, he didn’t think Bellamy would actually read it.

But as Murphy was learning, Bellamy was full of surprises. 

Whenever they were home at the same time, which usually fell on the nights Bellamy wasn’t working, he updated Murphy on his progress. Murphy asked about his favorite characters and Bellamy ranted about the stupid decisions they made. When Bellamy let slip that he always read the last page of the book first, Murphy wanted to punch him right in the face.

Rage was just an unfortunate side effect of talking to Bellamy. Even so, Murphy had to admit lately things were… nice. They finally exchanged numbers and texted each other about the shitty customers they had to deal with. They still bickered about everything from politics to the leaky faucet in the bathroom, but although he would never admit it, Murphy loved fighting with him. Bellamy kept him on his toes. They were matched in intelligence, but Bellamy was more eloquent where Murphy was more stubborn.

Once Murphy, sarcastically, told Bellamy he would make a great politician. “You’ve got the brains, the looks, the skeevy, conniving mind…”

Bellamy had laughed and gave him a playful shove. “If that ever happens, you have my permission to strangle me.”

And for some reason, the place where Bellamy’s hand had touched his shoulder tingled the rest of the day.

\---

Bellamy had spent the evening cloistered inside his room, studying for an upcoming test. His notes and books all blurred into one monster text that was undecipherable once midnight came and went. Midterm season was only a month away and he was stressing out about stressing out. Eventually he had to force himself to stop studying and attempt to get some sleep.

He stared into the darkness, visions of dates and names of emperors passing over his eyes. He kicked a blanket off, pulled it back up to his chin, rolled onto his stomach, rolled onto his side. He tried deep breathing exercises and forced his mind to think about something other than history.

As it happened, Murphy was that something. 

Over the past couple months, Bellamy had been trying to ignore how attracted he was to Murphy. It had started out small, just tiny realizations that would strike at random. Bellamy would suddenly notice Murphy’s cheekbones as they passed each other in the hall, or his arms on the rare days when he wasn’t sporting long sleeves. 

But little things add up, and now Bellamy could hardly be in the same room as Murphy without getting flustered. Murphy was a brat and yet all it took was one accidental touch to make Bellamy forget how to breathe. 

Bellamy thought about his body, lying just a little ways from his, separated by two walls. The other day Murphy had strolled into the kitchen around noon, shirtless and yawning as he assembled a bowl of cereal. Bellamy hadn’t known Murphy’s tattoos spread across his torso too. Right down to his lower stomach. Murphy wasn’t ripped, that’s for sure, but he still had a lean little body that was practically begging for Bellamy’s hands—

No. _No_. He shouldn’t think about his roommate that way. He shouldn’t be imagining Murphy’s back arching, or the curve of his neck (Bellamy had to look away whenever Murphy popped his neck now, it had gotten that bad), or something sweet he might whisper in Bellamy’s ear…

He imagined the sorts of sounds Murphy might make, and his boxers suddenly became too tight.

Bellamy cursed at himself as he dashed off to the bathroom for a bottle of lotion, knowing full well that if Murphy caught him in the hallway he would never hear the end of it. He made it back to his room alive. Just this once, he told himself. If anything, it would help him sleep. And then he would never, ever, _ever_ , do it again. This would get all thoughts of Murphy out of his system, and then he could move on with his life.

He glanced surreptitiously towards the door, as if Murphy were about to burst in and tell him off for being so disgusting.

The house remained quiet. Bellamy let his mind wander.

_Even in his fantasy, Murphy still has that self-satisfied smirk. His skin is hot under Bellamy’s hands as he traces the curves of ink on his skin. Bellamy kisses him and the inside of his mouth is hot and wet and pliant under Bellamy’s tongue. Murphy breaks the kiss too soon._

_He’s giving him that look that drives Bellamy crazy, like he’s sizing him up, like he wants to eat him alive. “Come on, I’m bored,” he says. “Hurry up and get this over with.”_

_Bellamy wants to wipe that fucking smirk off his face._

_Murphy’s breath hitches as Bellamy slides a hand down his torso, but it isn’t until Bellamy slides his hand below his waist that his expression falters. Bellamy’s other hand is splayed over Murphy’s side, running his fingers along the ridge of Murphy’s ribcage, down to the tattoo on his lower stomach. The hand between his thighs moves at a leisurely pace._

_All of the tough guy façade has melted away under Bellamy’s fingertips. Murphy is a whining mess, his lips are swollen and shiny with spit and parted just so. He’s blushing, blotchy and pink, and for once he makes no effort to hide or be embarrassed by it._

_Bellamy kisses him again, keeping his eyes open: he loves seeing Murphy lose his cool, he loves taking him down a peg. Almost as much as he loves the feeling of Murphy hard against his palm. Murphy’s eyes pop open to glare at him._

_“Faster.”_

_Bellamy kisses his collarbone. “No.”_

_“_ Bellamy _,” he whines._

_Murphy’s breathing gets quicker. He starts scrabbling at the sheets, bucking his hips impatiently. A ghost of a smile floats onto Bellamy’s face. Murphy arches his back and drags his nails down Bellamy’s shoulder blades. Finally, Bellamy obliges him and picks up the pace. Bellamy’s leaving sloppy kisses on his neck and Murphy is making the most beautiful noises and his body is shaking underneath Bellamy’s hands and—_

Bellamy jolted back to reality. He had gotten sloppy in his reverie; a wet stain marred his once clean sheets. His heart hammered in his chest. He shut his eyes and let the dregs of his fantasy pull him into unconsciousness.

\---

Across the hall, Murphy was having trouble sleeping.

He had already listened to about half of John Dies At The End (which he bought purely for the title alone), but he ditched the headphones when he realized it was only keeping him awake.

The silence didn’t help. He knew he could go to the kitchen and pour himself a drink to entice drowsiness but A. he was too lazy and B. Bellamy might show up and scold him for that too.

Bellamy, who earlier Murphy had caught exiting the bathroom with a towel loosely wrapped around his waist. It was nothing, typical roommate stuff, but for some reason, Murphy couldn’t get the image out of his head. The steam pouring out from the open door behind him, his curls plastered to his forehead, beads of water rolling down his chest…

Murphy had to acknowledge that Bellamy was fit. From an objective standpoint. He wasn’t weird for thinking it. Seriously. And sometimes insufferable pricks were blessed with amazing jawlines and really nice hands. It happened. Big whoop.

He idly rubbed himself through his track pants. What was one more reason to hate himself? Murphy could indulge himself tonight and then spend the rest of tomorrow loathing every dirty thought that crossed his mind. As if he wasn’t already. 

Fuck it, he thought, as his hand darted underneath his waistband.

_Bellamy’s teeth are at his throat, sucking another bruise onto his skin, the purple spots forming a constellation across Murphy’s neck and collarbone. When Bellamy kisses him, it’s too rough. Their teeth click and send wonderful shoots of pain up Murphy's skull. He smiles against Bellamy's mouth before he pulls away._

_Bellamy’s glaring at him. His voice is gruff, demanding, to the point. "On your knees."_

_Murphy doesn’t move fast enough for his liking. Bellamy slaps him, just once, across the face. "I'm not going to repeat myself."_

_He drops to the floor, even though his face is stinging and he wants to revel in the sensation for a minute. He’s panting and fumbling with Bellamy’s zipper._

_Bellamy grips Murphy's hair and yanks his head upward. "What are you waiting for?"_

_"I'm sorry," he stammers._

_The grip on his hair tightens. "Prove it."_

_He yanks Bellamy’s jeans down. Murphy puts a hand on Bellamy's thigh to steady himself, and runs the tip of his tongue down Bellamy's shaft. He teasingly flicks his tongue over the head, but Bellamy tugs him back._

_"Don't be a tease."_

_"I thought you wanted me to be sorry," Murphy asks innocently._

_Bellamy really is a sight to behold from this angle. He rolls his eyes. "You will be if you don't hurry the fuck up."_

_Murphy obliges and takes Bellamy into his mouth._

_He doesn’t bother bobbing his head. Bellamy fucks his mouth, and the hand that isn’t tangled in Murphy’s hair is digging its nails into his shoulder. Murphy hums a little as Bellamy mutters a stream of curses because he’s close and there isn’t one nerve in Murphy’s body that isn’t aching and Bellamy’s skin is as hot as a furnace, as hot as a fever—_

Murphy came before he could imagine the rest. Typical. He hated being a hair-trigger.

The afterglow of his orgasm was zapped in an instant. All he felt was weird and embarrassed, but sleep wasn’t any closer than before. He turned his head toward his alarm clock. 3:16 AM.

“Fuck.”

\---

Bellamy was grateful for two things the next day: the email from his professor saying that class was canceled, and Murphy’s 6AM to 2PM shift.

He put on some coffee and enjoyed the sun through the kitchen window. He thought about propping the back door open, letting in the last warm breeze of the season. The faintest fumes of kitchen cleaner hung in the air. Today would be fine. He could block last night from his memory completely. As long as he could avoid—

—Murphy, walking into the kitchen, hair mussed from sleep. Not at work. Not _not_ in the house. Bellamy turned his back to him.

“You’re up early,” he said too loudly.

“It’s noon.” Murphy leaned against the counter near the coffeemaker.

Bellamy nodded. “Yeah...”

The coffeemaker was still puttering away. Murphy drummed his fingers against the counter.

“I thought you had class.”

“It was canceled.”

“Oh.”

More silence. Murphy crossed his arms and tapped his foot restlessly. Bellamy coughed. They started speaking at the same time, interrupting each other.

“You first,” Bellamy said.

“I was saying that I’m off today.” Murphy’s eyes darted around the kitchen. “Which is why I’m up so late.”

“Huh.”

He cleared his throat. “What were you going to say?”

“I was going to ask why you were up so late.”

“Oh.”

The coffeemaker beeped. They both reached for it at the same time and flinched when their hands touched. Bellamy coughed again and got mugs out of the cabinet.

“Might want to get that cough checked out.”

Bellamy’s face flooded with heat. “Mhm.”

He slid the mug to Murphy and filled his own cup. He quickly replaced the coffeepot and turned to leave.

“Hey!”

They finally looked at each other. Their expressions were a perfect mirror of fear and apprehension, reflected ad infinitum between the both of them. 

Murphy swallowed. “You, you have some toothpaste on you.”

Bellamy lifted a hand to his mouth.

“Um…here.”

Murphy swiped at Bellamy’s chin with a thumb. The contact was brief but Bellamy felt like a branding iron had been dragged across his face. Murphy turned back to the coffee. “I got it.”

“Thanks…”

“Mhm.”

The remainder of the day was silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You sure can tell a lot about someone by what they think about when they're whacking off. I hope this was enough to whet your appetite. It's smut from here on out. 
> 
> But seriously, I really hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, it was a blast to write. You all have been so incredibly supportive and I cannot thank you enough for all the kudos and comments. Each one puts a smile on my face.
> 
> I'm going out of town for a few days again, but I promise to hit the ground running on the next chapter once I get back!
> 
> And thanks as always to the ever-amazing Abby, who opened her critique of this chapter with "I hate you".


	5. Chapter 5

Bellamy was hanging out with Clarke to celebrate midterm season being over. She needed it more than he did, honestly. Just hearing about the rigor of med school made him cringe. He was running late as it was, but there was one thing he had to do first.

He felt like he didn’t own enough books to justify purchasing a bookshelf, but hauling out boxes of them from under his bed was such a pain in the ass. He would get around to it eventually. He had other things on his mind.

He shuffled through the boxes, skimming the spines, pulling out anything that seemed interesting. The Little Prince? Too sentimental. Accordion Crimes? A possibility, but something about the tone kept it from being a definite yes.

Bellamy picked up Siken’s Crush and dropped it as if it caught fire.

Almost by reflex, his hand darted to the oldest title in the box. Fuck it, he thought. It hadn’t failed him yet.

The doorbell chimed, one ring following the last before the echo could fade. He tucked the book under his arm sprinted to answer it. A bemused Clarke was on the front porch, her finger hovering above the doorbell. She had a knapsack slung over one shoulder, her sketchbook peeking out of it.

“Murphy’s still asleep and I’ll never hear the end of it if you wake him up.”

“Damn, I was really looking forward to meeting him.” Clarke let herself in while Bellamy scampered to the kitchen. “You didn’t answer my texts. I thought you were napping again.”

He scribbled a note on a lone post-it and stuck it to the cover of the book. “No, just distracted.”

Clarke stood on her tiptoes to peer over his shoulder. She straightened the book so the spine was parallel with the edge of the counter.

“Well, come on,” she said, linking her arm through his. “We’re burning daylight.”

\---

Murphy waited until he heard the front door shut to roll out of bed. He had a few choice words for whoever that obnoxious friend of Bellamy’s was.

For some reason, the stillness of the house felt desolate today. He padded down the hallway, not wanting to make a noise for fear of disturbing the peace. He was just being moody, he told himself. He stepped into the shower. Tonight he was seeing Miller and Monty and he would forget the nagging sense of loneliness that gnawed at him.

He showered until the water ran cold. There was no better feeling than using all the hot water for yourself, no pesky roommates beating on the door, reciting last month’s water bill. He dressed and grabbed his pack of Lucky Strikes from his nightstand. 

Something was waiting for him in the kitchen: a book, in front of the coffeemaker. He waited until he had his hand curled around cup of coffee before making an effort to read it. At least Bellamy had neat handwriting. Murphy sounded out the words under his breath.

_I know you said classics weren’t your thing, but I’m electing to ignore that._  
_This has been my favorite book for as long as I can remember._  
_You don’t have to like it, but the least you could do is read it._  
_–Bellamy_

Murphy plucked the note off the cover. The Iliad. He smirked. The poor bastard didn’t know. Of course he didn’t know. Misguided as he was, Murphy was glad Bellamy was reciprocating the book recommendations. They should start a book club. Ha.

He put a cigarette between his lips and flipped through the book, disinterested. He stopped when the flurry of pages betrayed pen marks next to the text.

Bellamy had underlined certain passages, written notes in the margins, two exclamation points beside a paragraph, or a question mark with an arrow pointed to a bracketed section. Murphy found a page that was underlined in its entirety, careful black lines in the minuscule spaces between the words.

He picked up his coffee mug and took the book outside. He sat on the end of the porch, seeking out the places where Bellamy had felt compelled to commit pen to page. He tried to decipher the stanzas he had underlined, but didn’t get far before he got too dizzy to continue. He set the book down and lit up.

Murphy felt as if he were intruding on something personal of Bellamy’s, like the book was a diary instead of a novel. There was something intimate about reading a marked up book, because you were reading through another person’s eyes. Bellamy didn’t have to tell Murphy it was his favorite book. It was obvious. Even the pages themselves were worn soft at the corners, and the spine crackled merrily when the cover opened.

Sometimes the things he underlined held no significance to Murphy, and sometimes he underlined entire paragraphs of breathtaking prose that made Murphy feel as if they were experiencing the beauty of the words in the exact same way.

The sky above was a flat grey, illuminated like a murky fish tank. Murphy stared at cherry ember at the end of his cigarette, and wondered how he was going to break the news to Bellamy.  


Later, he slipped the note into the box on his dresser, which held ticket stubs and other paper mementos similar to the ones Bellamy had emblazoned on his wall. Murphy shut the lid. He didn’t want to reminisce right now.

\---

A video of a woman’s tongue lapping at glitter and gold beads looped endlessly before his eyes. Bellamy had been thinking about something, but my god, art was bizarre.

Clarke perched her chin on his shoulder, jabbing him with it when she talked. “Are you zoning out or just really into modern art?”

“The first one. I couldn’t tell you what this means.”

She hummed. “The subversion of beauty?”

“The collapse of the US economy?”

“Now you’re just being an ass.”

Clarke had desperately been wanting to see this exhibit for months, and when Bellamy suggested going after their tests were over, her grin just about split her face in half. The artist in question was known for her videos and paintings, enamel on metal, her canvases even taller than Bellamy was. Clarke turned to a painting next to the screen and sighed.

“I’d give my right arm to be able to do photorealism.”

“Or you could keep your arm and, you know, practice.” He flicked her head, sending a few blonde flyaways reeling from her artfully messy bun. 

“You know what I mean. Are you seeing the detail on those eyelashes though?”

Once Clarke had her fill, they headed downstairs to the tunnel that connected the two museum buildings. 

“Was the exhibit really that disturbing?”

“Sorry?”

“You’ve been quiet all day.” She took on a more serious tone. “If something’s going on—”

“No, no, it’s stupid. I lent Murphy a book, but I’m not sure if it’s the right one.”

Clarke sighed. “That is stupid. There’s no such thing as a wrong book, Bell.” She elbowed him. “Do you like him?”

He snorted. “It’ll be a miracle if he ever finds someone to put up with him. But I feel comfortable calling him a friend.”

“Hard to impress?”

“You have no idea.”

Clarke laughed. “We should swap roommates.”

“Raven might be worse than Murphy.”

“You’re such a misanthrope wannabe.”

The tunnel was bathed in red light and constructed so the place where the walls met the floor was invisible, as if it was a solid beam of light. The light turned Clarke’s hair a fiery shade. She adjusted the shoulder strap of her knapsack.

“Speaking of wannabes, I’m submitting something for a show.”

“Finally. What show?”

“A ‘rising stars’ showing at Rosebud Gallery. Runs for a month. I might actually sell something this time.”

“Good on you. It’s about time you begin your reign of terror on the art world.”

She laughed. “I’d hardly call it that. I would rule with a velvet hand.”

“And an iron fist beneath!”

She shoved him playfully. “If I actually make it in, you have to come to the opening. Promise.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

\---

Bellamy quite literally bumped into Murphy when he came home. Near misses, just like always.

“Sorry,” Murphy muttered.

“Me too. Going out?”

“Yeah.” He held up a finger. “But before I go…”

He darted off down the hall and returned with the book. Bellamy quietly accepted it when Murphy handed it out to him. 

“Thanks, really, but…I can’t.”

The hurt look on his face made Murphy want to snatch it back. “Sure you can.” Bellamy made to hand the book over. “Just give it back when you’re finished.”

“No.” Murphy wanted to evaporate. “I’m dyslexic.”

It took Bellamy a long time to speak. “Oh. Fuck, I thought—”

“I know you thought.”

“But…the books in your room?”

“I buy my favorites. Used. I like looking at the covers.” They smelled nice too, but he wasn’t going to say that.

Bellamy nodded. “I’m…really sorry. Wow.” He scratched the back of his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Not exactly something I want to advertise.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Easy for you to say.”

They were still standing too close. Bellamy wet his lips. “Weren’t you going somewhere?”

“Yeah.” Murphy didn’t move. “I was.”

They were too close. Sooner or later someone had to move, someone had to close the gap between them. Murphy’s face was tilted up toward Bellamy’s, lips parted, his eyes imploring him to do something for god’s sake. Bellamy pressed his forehead to Murphy’s.

“You really want to do this?”

Murphy kissed the corner of his mouth. “More than you know.”

Bellamy could feel Murphy’s breath on his cheek. Murphy could feel the heat from Bellamy’s face. Then their lips finally met and they wondered why they put this off for so long.

Murphy’s lips were chapped and his breath smelled like smoke and to Bellamy he was as wonderfully imperfect as ever. There was a paranoid part of him that feared this would be their first and only kiss, to which Bellamy decided to hell with it and parted Murphy’s lips with his tongue.

The ghost of every last cigarette Murphy ever smoked was on his tongue, and Bellamy didn’t care. Bellamy had seen that mouth spit out blood, booze, insults, never gentle like this. He trailed his hand down Murphy’s head so that his thumb could rest against his throat and he could feel how fast his heart was beating. 

Bellamy tasted like summer. He tasted like running barefoot up a sunny hillside, like cold lemonade and hot concrete, like diving into a muggy lake in the middle of the night. He tasted like everything Murphy never had and he never wanted to stop kissing him. He had to pull away to get his breath back.

They were a perfect mirror, pupils blown out, their breath coming in shakily. Murphy was flushed, his normally wan face now sporting twin pink splotches, and for a while he avoided Bellamy’s eyes. Then they looked straight at each other and Murphy smiled his elusive crooked smile, and Bellamy had no choice but to smile back. He set the book on the floor out of harm’s way and took Murphy into his arms.

They kissed again and there are no fireworks. Only flames.

Murphy couldn’t decide where to put his hands first, now that he could finally touch Bellamy. His hands slipped from his shoulders, to his biceps, to his back. Bellamy had a hand wrapped around his waist and the other tangled in his hair. Bellamy tugged Murphy’s head back and kissed the curve of his neck, catching the skin between his lips. Murphy stared at the ceiling and thanked his dim, distant lucky stars that their paths managed to cross tonight.

Bellamy released him to remove his shirt. Murphy tried to fumble off his own shirt, but only succeeded in wedging his arms above his head.

“I’m stuck.” His voice was muffled by the fabric.

“You’re joking.”

“I wish.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes and yanked Murphy free. “Do you normally need help getting undressed?”

“Well I wouldn’t say no if you—”

Murphy’s phone ringing cut him off. He muttered a curse as he declined the call. “As I was saying…”

Bellamy quirked an eyebrow at him. “Couch?”

“Yes, please.”

He’d no sooner sat down than Bellamy engulfed him, his mouth insistent at Murphy’s lips. Murphy let his hands lazily slide down Bellamy’s sides, slipping a hand into the back pocket of his jeans.  


Bellamy trailed kisses down his jaw onto his neck. He probed the tender skin with his teeth. “This okay?”

“Do what you want.”

His back arched when Bellamy sucked a hickey onto his throat. A moan buzzed in his throat, vibrating against Bellamy’s lips. He smiled and followed the curve of skin to his shoulder. Murphy pulled Bellamy down and rolled his hips up to meet his. 

Bellamy slid off of him and knelt on the floor. He pulled Murphy to the edge of the couch, who lifted his hips obligingly when Bellamy’s fingers started tugging at his waistband. Bellamy planted a few light, teasing kisses along his inner thigh, floating up to mouth at the tattoo on his lower stomach: “keep the faith”, on a banner held by two bluebirds. He saw Murphy gripping the couch, white-knuckled, and took him into his mouth.

“Shit,” Murphy breathed. 

Bellamy worked his fingers off the couch as he slowly moved his head. His mouth disconnected with a sucking sound. “You need to relax,” he muttered.

“Said the pot to the kettle.” Murphy snaked his fingers into Bellamy’s hair instead, cradling the back of his skull.

He grabbed Murphy’s cock, slick with spit, and flicked his tongue over the head. He moved his hand slowly, ignoring the desperate bucking of Murphy’s hips. He took his sweet time, but soon he could feel his orgasm rippling over his body, punctuated by a string of broken curses. Bellamy licked his lips and became aware of his own heat between his legs.

Murphy’s eyelids fluttered open. He gestured vaguely to the spot on the couch next to him and Bellamy sprung to his side. Murphy lavished one more kiss on him, tasting himself on Bellamy’s tongue, before kneeling between his legs. He parted his lips to say something, but was choked off once again by the chirping of his cell phone.

He fished it out of his pocket and jammed the answer button. “Now’s not a good time, Nate.” He hung up and tossed the phone across the room. The unmistakable sound of a screen skittering across tile made him flinch.

“Who was that?”

“Miller.” He undid the buckle on Bellamy’s belt.

“Is that where you were going?”

“Yeah, I guess, why are you so interested?”

“Would’ve been more polite to call and cancel is all.”

Murphy glared at him. “Bellamy.”

He held up his hands defensively. “I’m just saying.”

“Do you want your dick sucked or not?” He had one hand paused in the act of yanking down Bellamy’s boxers. “Because clearly I have other places I’m needed.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

He gave Bellamy’s cock a few quick rubs through the fabric until he could feel him hardening against his palm. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he muttered.

Bellamy felt fabric being dragged down his legs, and then felt Murphy’s tongue against him. He shivered.

It really had been too long since he’d done this. The warm enclave of a mouth around him felt like coming home. He shut his eyes and leaned his head back. He scratched Murphy’s scalp in encouragement as his head moved between his legs. He could feel the knots in his back untying themselves from too many nights hunched over at his desk or from standing for hours on end at work.

His mind wandered as Murphy moved between his legs, and soon his orgasm brought him back to the present, leaving his body soothed. Murphy peered up at him from under his eyelashes as he rocked back onto his heels, and Bellamy almost regretted keeping his eyes closed. 

“So. That just happened.”

Bellamy ruffled his hair and stood. “I’m gonna grab a drink, you want one?”

“That’d be great.”

He leaned against the couch, still sitting on the floor, and watched Bellamy walk to the kitchen. Which is when he noticed it.

“Oh my god.”

An anatomically correct human heart was tattooed on his ass. Fully colored, shaded and everything. Bellamy looked back at him and shrugged.

“I lost a bet. And I’m a man of my word.”

Murphy laughed. “I can’t believe you’re real.”

“I’m very real,” Bellamy said, bending down to pull him into another kiss.

Murphy was itching for a cigarette. “I really hope my fucking phone isn’t broken.”

Bellamy scooped it up after rummaging through the fridge. “Nah, you’re good.” He handed Murphy his phone and a beer, already opened.

“So what is this?” Murphy asked as they drank in silence.

Bellamy shrugged mid-sip. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Friends with benefits?”

“Not just a one night stand?”

“It better not be.”

“I thought you didn’t drink.”

“Special occasion.” He tilted the neck of the bottle toward Murphy. “To fucking without feelings.”

“Hear, hear.”

The sound of glass on glass rang merrily through the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feels good to be back! Bent a few rules in this, but it had to be done. (Crush, in addition to being a fantastic book, also reminds me heavily of murphamy. Definitely worth a read. This fic has become an ode to books, whoops.)
> 
> It's so surreal to me that this fic passed 1000 hits. If you're reading this, thank you for all your love. 
> 
> Obligatory thanks to Abby, for keeping me sane when I needed a break, and motivating me when I needed to work.
> 
> Also, follow me on [tumblr](http://ovalorbit.tumblr.com) if you feel so inclined! I'd love to tackle any requests thrown at me...


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